


The Ballet

by wilma_de_worde



Series: A Thousand Apologies [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Drug Abuse, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidnapping, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Parentlock, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Siblings, Torture, Violence against Children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-02-20 12:38:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2429096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilma_de_worde/pseuds/wilma_de_worde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>COMPLETE.  After eleven years of relative peace on Baker Street, an old acquaintance comes to pay a visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mosso

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a pretty significant divergence from the stuff I've been posting as of late. I've been working on this story for a crazy long time and I hope I've done justice to the voices in my head. I've got a good start on it and hope to update with relative frequency, but please be patient with me. This looks to be a pretty hefty undertaking and I'd rather take my time and do it right than rush to get updates. I am so sorry for making you wait. Tags and warnings will be added as necessary. Thank you, as always, for being a fantastic audience. You guys are the best and I'm so glad I found the best sandbox to play in.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mosso (adj)  
> Moved.

John had been wrong, of course, when he’d said the ballet would be interesting. His hypothesis that the music was all Tchaikovsky and Sherlock liked Tchaikovsky and would, therefore, enjoy three hours of emaciated lunatics prancing around in pink tights while Tchaikovsky was slaughtered in the background had proved to be unfounded. Sherlock had made a point of explaining this to John in as concise a manner as possible whilst huddled up in their stuffy box, adding that the lead dancer was clearly having a tumultuous affair with the director and had had a rather heated argument with him between Acts I and II, the evidence of which was more than apparent in the sloppy so-called duet between Siegfried and Odette. His address had not been well-received -- perhaps because the director’s wife was seated behind them to bear witness to his deductions and perhaps because it was Siegfried and not Odette who had been quarrelling with her husband in the wings. It was hard to say, as the woman had not been courteous enough to explain the direct cause of her ear-splitting sob before she bolted from her seat and tore wailing down the stairs. Sherlock was not believed when he claimed ignorance of the woman’s relation to the director, which only convinced him further that he and the good Doctor were spending far too much time together as of late.

Still, John was wearing that magnificent blue shirt, the one he claimed was too tight and about which Sherlock emphatically disagreed. Sherlock found himself focusing on that glorious garment through the hushed berating which droned out the entirety of Act III. He made a mental note to give John a proper thank you when they got home for saving him from the slow disembowelment of the _Mazurka_. Good man, John Watson. Always reliable. 

He was relieved to be back in a cab, John’s weight against him as they swept through the rainy London night, John’s warm hand on his thigh as he dozed against his shoulder. His arm tightened around John’s chest, and he found himself pressing a kiss to his head. John snuggled in closer and squeezed his leg.

‘Do you suppose Will’s blown up the kitchen yet?’ he murmured.

Sherlock smiled, his nose rubbing into soft, greying hair. ‘Without a doubt. But it’s late; they’ll be asleep by now.’

‘We ought to find them a proper sitter. I know Mrs Hudson is just downstairs, but…’

‘They’re fine. She’ll keep an eye on them.’

‘It seems a lot to ask.’

‘I can assure you, there is nothing she enjoys more than chasing after them.’

‘Please don’t make assumptions.’

‘I’m not assuming. She told me so yesterday.’

John sat up, his smile sardonic. ‘Did she physically speak those words to you, or are you making inferences?’ 

‘She as good as told me.’

‘Sherlock…’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Alright, fine. She got choked up when I asked her to watch them, but she might as well have hired a skywriter.’ 

‘That’s what I thought.’ He settled into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. ‘We should still do something nice to thank her properly. I’m sure she has better things to do than watch our kids.’

‘No, she doesn’t.’

‘Not the point, Sherlock.’

‘I’m only aiming for accuracy.’

John sighed and placed a wet, insistent bite just below the curve of Sherlock’s jaw, earning a gasp. ‘Shut it.’

Sherlock frowned, forcing his pulse to slow. ‘I hate that you found my off switch.’

‘And I am so glad I did.’ He sat back against the seat with a smile, rubbing Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock’s jacket buzzed and he sighed in reply. ‘If that’s Lestrade, it’s far too late for you to come out and play.’

‘I’m not sure who it is.’ He clicked on the text, his brow furrowing. A series of nine pips sounded: three short, three long, three short again. ‘John?’

‘Was that an S.O.S.?’

‘John, you need to look at this.’

‘What is it?’ He stared at the phone. ‘That’s the picture on your desk. From when we took the boys to Hull.’ His eyes widened. ‘If Will is mucking around again, I swear to God--’ The phone rang. He could hear John’s pulse speed up. He took a deep breath before answering.

‘Hullo?’

That clear, sweet voice on the other end of the line, shaking with suppressed tears. ‘Hello, sexy.’

His heart stopped. ‘Hamish--’ The hand on his thigh tightened.

‘I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.’

He closed his eyes, forcing back the tremble in his throat. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘I hope you don’t mind, but I popped by while you were out. Had a couple of things to pick up.’ 

Will then, somewhere close by, panicked: ‘I’m sorry, Dad! I’m so sorry!’

John’s hand tore away from his leg, searching frantically for his phone.

‘I like the other one better. He makes such funny noises.’

John ripped the lining of his pocket in his mad dash to seize the phone, fingers flying across the screen as he dialled.

‘But this one looks so much like you. I can’t wait to play with him.’

‘Greg! We need you at Baker Street! Something’s happened, something’s-- Jesus!’

‘Is that John I hear? How is your darling toy?’ His little voice cracked. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut at the laboured breaths. ‘He looks really good these days. He must love having you around to suck him off.’

‘Now, Greg! Please! Right now!’

‘Hamish, tell your brother it’s alright.’

‘Dad, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’

Tiny lungs coughed around a lump in his throat. _That bloody cold. Why didn’t he listen to John and drink his Lemsip?_ ‘It’s alright, Hamish.’ Sherlock forced his voice to stay steady. _He doesn’t like the way it tastes, always so sensitive to citrus--_ ‘Everything’s going to be alright.’

A raspy breath, cutting him like a dagger. ‘Don’t lie to the boy. It does no good to lie to children.’

He swallowed hard, pushing his voice into his chest. ‘Why bother with the boy? We both know it’s me you want.’

‘How did you get to be so ordinary, Sherlock? You used to be fun. You used to like it when I shook things up.’

‘You’re just distracting yourself. Why not come straight for me?’

A bitten-back sob. His chest ached, unable to look at John, unable to see the tears in his eyes, the blind, bloody, furious panic. ‘But you made it so easy. How could I resist?’ Another cough, wet and deep. _Maybe we can try the blackcurrant kind, it tastes like Ribena, he loves that stuff, we might be able to get him to drink that the next time, he’s such a good boy, please, god, just let there be a next ti--_ His eyes slammed shut. ‘I’ll be waiting, Sherlock. Ta-ta for now.’ 

The phone went dead.

John flew out of the taxi before the cabbie could shift into park, racing up the stairs to confirm what they both already knew. A moment later, Lestrade’s familiar car screeched around the corner with half of Scotland Yard close behind. Sherlock moved as if he was underwater, reaching the top of the stairs just in time to meet John on his way down from the boys’ room: tears streaming down his sheet-white face, eyes pleading, hands shaking. Lestrade bolted up the stairs to them, looking like he’d seen a ghost. His voice sounded a thousand miles away.

‘What’s happened? John? Are you okay?’

He broke then, sobbed, wept, and there was nothing Sherlock could do, nothing he could change, no way to save the man who’d saved him so many times. ‘He’s back, Greg, he’s back and he has the boys, Mish and Will, they’re gone, they’re gone--!’

Sherlock sank to the floor, hands knotted in his hair, heart racing and sick. His head slipped between his knees and he heaved and heaved as John fought through his sobs to try and explain, as Lestrade directed the incoming crowd to send out descriptions, alert Special Services, get Mycroft on the phone, as Mrs Hudson ran up the stairs in only her nightgown, panicked and frightened and _How could they be gone? Where did they go? Oh god, how did I not know? Oh god, John, no!_ He closed his eyes and played it again, over and over in his mind: their sweet, shy boy trying so hard to be brave for him, brave enough so Will could be brave, too, brave like Papa so Daddy wouldn’t be scared.

He didn’t hear the phone calls back to the Yard or CSI trooping down the bedroom stairs. He didn’t uncurl from his place on the landing as Mrs Hudson patted his head, madly asking if he wanted a cup of tea before trundling off without a response. He missed the consoling words from Donovan, the panicked look from Anderson, Lestrade’s blessed assertion that they clear out already and help with the search.

Then John’s hands were on his wrists and easing his fingers from his hair.

‘You have to come back, love.’

‘He has them--’

‘Come back to me, love.’

‘John, he has them, he has our boys--’

‘I need you, sweetheart, look at me--’

‘Hamish has a cold, he was coughing, he was--’

‘Sherlock.’ A rough palm on his cheek, warm and steady. Tears in John’s eyes, threatening escape, anxiety at his brow, shirt untucked, worry worry worry. ‘I need you right now. We have to fix this.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘You have to shut it off, Sherlock.’

‘Shut it off--? John, they’re our--’

‘What did you tell me? About Mary? I know you remember.’

‘He’s got them, John--’

‘You have to, love. Shut it off. For just a moment, you have to shut it off.’ Sherlock closed his eyes. ‘We have to find them and you’re the only one who can.’ Sherlock blinked up at him, teary and shaking. ‘Just now. Just for a moment. We have to find them. “Not in this flat; not in this room.” Remember? “Right here, right now.” What are they?’

He drew a quivering breath, trying to push down the panic and sick fear that threatened to erupt all over the landing carpet. ‘Clients.’

‘Just another puzzle, just another one of his stupid, sick games. You’ve won so many times already. What’s one more?’

Sherlock looked into his eyes, beneath the same blind terror he felt bubbling up in his own chest, and there was only trust and certainty, complete confidence in the mad brilliance of Sherlock Holmes. Hamish’s voice flitted across his mind once more, the gentle determination to not let the bad man see him cry. Brave like his Papa. His hand found John’s against his cheek and he shut his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. He swallowed and opened them once more, clearer and colder than they were a moment before.

‘I need to see their room.’

It was a mess, although that wasn’t exactly out of place. Books piled high on the right dresser and crammed into the shelves. The burn mark on the window ledge from the rocket incident of last summer. Odd stains along the rug on the left side, the results of experiments gone very nearly right. There had been a struggle: a smashed toy, torn sheets, a fleck of blood on Will’s eiderdown. He closed his eyes. John was standing firm in the corner by the door, jaw set, breathing steady. _Breathe._ Grass stains. Library dust. Hamish’s shampoo. Coconut oil. His eczema had gotten so much better the past few months. Liquorice Allsorts. Will was hiding them under his mattress again. Sulphuric undertones -- he must be hiding that too, whatever it was, must look into that when things are back to normal. Pubescent sweat. Someone had swiped John’s hospital coat -- it was the only thing in the house with that particular blend of sandalwood Taylor of Old Bond Street aftershave and harsh antiseptic. Must have happened when he went up to see Harry, they miss him so much when he’s gone. Traces of menthol. Coal dust. Tyrconnell Single Malt. Interesting choice. Some sort of adhesive, so familiar, what is that? It’ll come. Steel. Ironwood and skin oil. The worn leather of a sheath.

He’d had a knife.

He turned to the door. Scratches on the frame about halfway up. Fingernails long, gritty. Will had hung on. Something on the stairs, must have fallen from at least five feet up. He grabbed it: a little toy bear from a Kinder egg. Hamish had been over the man’s shoulder. Mrs Hudson downstairs, why didn’t they scream? He turned to the room again: sticky residue on the post of Will’s rumpled bed. That smell -- duct tape. Of course. He wet his lips.

‘I’m missing something.’

‘Talk it out.’

‘They knew someone was coming. They had to have, the stairs creak and they’ve been hearing it their whole lives. William always wakes up when the door opens, he would have known if it was us. Never mind the fact that he can smell a lit fag from a hundred yards away and he knows only madmen smoke on Baker Street. Mrs Hudson’s in her room, but he’s tough, he’s impulsive, he’d think he could stand up to whoever it was.’ He stood between the beds, looking between them. ‘He wakes Hamish. Doesn’t want him to shout when the man gets upstairs. Hamish knows Mrs Hudson might be in danger so he keeps quiet, he’s loyal like you. But he’s smart, too, he reads, he would tell William to leave us a clue.’

‘Will was talking in the background.’

‘He was scared.’

‘What did he _say_?’ John was at his elbow. ‘He’s clever, Sherlock, they’re both so clever, at least as clever as you. What did he _say_?’

He plays back the tape inside his mind. ‘“I’m sorry, Dad, I’m so sorry. Dad, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”’

‘What does it mean, Sherlock? Something you talked about, something he read, something he _knew_ you’d remember.’

He raced through the halls of his memory, eyes searching, lips repeating: _I’m sorry, Dad, I’m so sorry. Dad, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._ The walls came crashing down and he gasped. ‘Justin Martyr.’

‘What?’

Sherlock was already on his knees, feeling under the mattress. ‘Justin Martyr, _The First and Second Apologies_. He nicked it off of a cleric in Hampstead three weeks ago.’ His fingers closed around an old film canister and he tossed it to John. ‘Hold this. Don’t open it, you don’t want to know.’ 

‘Why between the mattresses?’

‘It’s a safe place to hide and it’s close, no one will see you sneak anything under there. He’s eleven years old, it makes perfect sense. Ah!’ He pulled out the battered book, flicking it open. The title page bore two crimson circles around the letters of the author’s name. John was beside him again.

‘J and M. Jim Moriarty.’

‘But we knew that already. Come on, darling, be clever--’ His fingers raked through the pages, landing in A Note on this Translation. Will’s spiky handwriting already filled the margins, a mess of graphite in the old print. Red ink glared at him from a hasty scribble among a hundred others. ‘Titus Fulvius Aelius Hadrianus Antoninus Augustus Pius.’ Two red lines drawn carefully beneath the second-to-last word. ‘Augustus.’ A name slipped into place. His eyes flashed to John. ‘He sent Moran.’

‘Moran? _Sebastian_ Moran?’

‘Son of Augustus, the late ambassador to Iran. Clever boy!’ He slammed the book shut. ‘Absolutely brilliant!’

John’s voice was near panic again. ‘Sherlock, if Moran has them--’

‘I know.’ He flipped up the collar of his coat before slipping the plastic bear into his pocket. Its weight felt comforting against his chest. ‘Call Lestrade. There isn’t much time.’


	2. Suggeritore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suggeritore (n; masc)  
> Prompter.

When he was five, Hamish had spent a long and painful night in the children’s ward of St Bartholomew’s Hospital as a direct result of his elder brother climbing onto the kitchen worktop, grabbing the bottle Papa had hidden behind the embalming fluid on top of the refrigerator (labelled ‘Do Not Touch This, William Watson-Holmes -- _I MEAN IT_ ’), and pouring several heaping tablespoons into Hamish’s muesli while he was in the loo. As Will would put it later, Papa had ‘gone ballistic’, shouting loud enough to send the cabbie into a frenzy while Dad rubbed Hamish’s back and held the paper bag he chundered in the entire ride over. Will was laid into all over again when Aunt Molly rushed up from the morgue after hearing reports of ‘a bloody madman in children’s screaming at this tyke’. He stood ashamed while she berated him, stock-still as she demanded, ‘Does “at Her Majesty’s pleasure” mean anything to you? William Morstan, _you look at me when I’m talking to you!_ ’ Upon review, they had both agreed that a gutting from Aunt Molly was far worse than Papa’s screaming. After all, Papa did that sort of thing all the time.

He didn’t think he would ever forget the overwhelming fear he’d felt as he retched for hours into a plastic bowl: the steady assertion echoing in his mind that he was most certainly going to die; Will’s white face as he stood terrified in the corner, watching his brother waste away because of what he’d done; Papa racing from nurse’s station to paediatrician and back to his room, demanding answers and speaking gibberish. He had hardly believed it when he woke the next morning very much alive and aching from head to toe. Dad was still in the chair beside his bed, working through all of the activities in the colouring book on his bedside table. Papa had only just fallen asleep in the bed next to him, his jacket still on and his brow sweaty. His brother had been exiled to a week with Uncle Mycroft for his indiscretion (Dad had argued a bit at that, he’d learned, stating that there were far more humane punishments for juvenile offenders available in the civilised world). Looking back, it had almost been worth it to have a week alone with his parents, eating all of the jelly and ice cream he could stomach and drifting off snuggled against Papa while Dad met with clients and muttered to the walls.

That had been the worst night of his life. Even after the taste of hot, fetid breakfast ceased to haunt his memory. Even after he and his brother had reconciled and he had agreed that a bottle labelled like that was just begging to be opened. There was nothing that he could think of that would be as awful as that dreadful night in Bart’s.

This was indescribably worse.

It was dark and cold. The clammy floor and dusty air were worsening his cough. His shoulders ached against the freezing pole to which his hands were tied. The man in the hat was in some dark corner, his location betrayed only by the red tip of his hundredth cigarette and his infrequent chuckles at Will’s asthmatic wheezing. But worse than all of this -- far, far worse than any of these terrible, painful, frightening things -- was the view directly in front of him.

His brother was crying.

Will didn’t cry. Will didn’t know _how_ to cry. Will fell out of the tree in Gran’s garden and broke his arm in three places and didn’t shed a tear. Will nicked half the Aeros from the shop up the street and Papa had Uncle Greg lock him up for the afternoon and he never made a sound. Now Fearless Will, William the Conqueror, his ally, his protector, his ballast in the absurdity that was their life at Baker Street was weeping and shaking with fear, and Hamish felt empty and hopeless inside.

If Will was crying, what chance did he have?

Hamish wasn’t brave. Hamish wasn’t clever. Hamish read too many books and got jam on his trousers and hated the dark. Hamish hadn’t woken up to the smell of smoke outside their window and known -- absolutely known -- that the man in the hat was bad and mean and hated their father and wanted them dead and they had to _do_ something about it. Hamish didn’t have to be good at those things; that’s why he had Will. But now it was dark and his pyjamas were thin and Will was crying and Dad was scared and Papa must be scared, too, angry and frightened, and that only left Hamish and he had to think fast or they wouldn’t wake up this time, not a chance.

The realisation did nothing to ease his concern.

Will was the hero, not him; he didn’t have enough Watson in him for that. They sat in the dark and he could distinguish a dozen kinds of grit on the floor, three species of roaches crawling on the wall, the ages of the rats scuttling overhead. He could identify that the man in the hat smoked Superkings 100s and hadn’t bought new trousers in two years and had a wonky knee he pretended never hurt him, yet how would any of that help them now? It was just data: another series of facts and details his inner spermologer couldn’t resist. He looked over at Will and his chest ached with every laboured breath his brother drew. If they could just get _outside_ … They were still in London; he was sure of it.

Seven years spent sharing a room with William Morstan Watson-Holmes had to teach you something, he reasoned.

And, suddenly, he knew what he had to do.

His frozen toes searched the cement around him, landing on a chunk of gravel and skittering it across the floor. At once, Will’s dark eyes flashed up at him, damp with tears and wretched. Hamish held his gaze for a long moment before cocking his eyebrow in a perfect imitation of their father. The corners of Will’s lips twitched in reply and he nodded.

Seven years spent sharing a room _had_ taught him something. Seven years of surviving Christmas with an ill-tempered Mycroft, matinees with their grandparents, their father’s moods, illicit hide-and-seek in Scotland Yard, all of it had taught him well the lesson all children learn when living solely in the adult world: they didn’t need words to conspire. 

From what Hamish could see on his brother’s sooty face, Will remembered this lesson, too.

Hamish shifted back against his pole. _You okay?_

Will’s legs stretched on the damp floor. _I’m scared, Mish._

He took a breath and looked back at his brother. _Me too._

Will swallowed and shook his head. _Do you have a plan?_

Hamish coughed wetly. _Almost._ He coughed again. _Yes._

Will sat up a little straighter. His shoulder rolled against the metal of his pole. His wheezing was getting worse, but his gaze had never been steadier. _Excellent._ He took a breath.

‘Hey, mister?’ The man in the hat was silent. ‘Oy! I know you’re over there!’

A metal chair shifted beneath his weight. ‘What do you want?’

‘I need to do a wee.’

The man in the hat cleared his throat and spat. ‘Piss yourself. I don’t care.’

Will’s face fell, his eyes desperate. ‘Please don’t make me say it…’

‘Say what?’ Will didn’t reply. ‘The fuck you on about?’ He blushed, his eyes lowering to the ground as he muttered. ‘What?’ the man called.

Will’s flush deepened. He addressed his lap. ‘I have to do a poo, too.’ Hamish stifled a giggle. Will glared at him.

‘Jesus Christ…’ The sound of metal scraping on cement and heavy footsteps made their way over.

Hamish stuck his tongue out at Will. _So far so good._

Will crinkled his nose and glared. _We’re not out of the woods yet._

‘Knock it off!’ The man in the hat came up behind Will and fussed with the ropes on his pole. Hamish coughed against the heavy stink of menthol, sweat, and cheap whiskey. The man cleared his throat and spat again. Flecks of spittle stung Will’s cheek. ‘Come on, you,’ the man said, hefting him to his feet.

‘Where are you going?’ Hamish cried.

‘Shut up!’

‘You can’t just leave me here!’

‘I said shut it!’

‘Please!’ he screamed. The man’s hand barrelled toward his face. Hamish winced, but the blow never came. The man balled his fist and shoved his hand in his pocket as Hamish wailed. Hamish caught Will’s eyes. 

_Interesting_ , they said. 

‘Please don’t leave me here! I’m scared!’ His voice crept higher and higher, ear-piercing in the empty building. ‘I won’t run away, I promise! Please!’

‘Fuckin’ hell…’ He grabbed at the ropes around Hamish’s pole, awkwardly holding Will against his side. He yanked Hamish up with one hand. ‘Now keep quiet! Or I’ll tan both your hides.’ 

His brother caught his eye again and smirked, and Hamish felt a rush of warm relief surge up from the cold concrete. Will was back. Trouble was brewing in his blue-grey eyes.

They might wake up from this after all.


	3. Rubato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rubato (adj.)  
> Robbed.

It would have been easier if John had been pacing. If he had paced or cried or tugged at his hair, Molly would have been able to take his hand and murmur soothing words and she wouldn’t have been so afraid. But John was sitting quietly, one hand around a paper cup of coffee long gone cold. His gaze was fixed on the dark window of the canteen. From time to time he rubbed his eyes, but the lateness of the hour suggested any sane man would do such a thing. It was nearing three in the morning.

She floundered for something to say.

‘We almost lost him, you know.’

It was a small miracle she didn’t choke on her coffee. ‘Sorry?’

‘Will. We almost lost him. Mary, she slipped on the ice that winter, almost miscarried.’ His voice was low, composed, as if he were delivering a prognosis. ‘She was so close to term. I don’t know how she managed to keep him, but there you are. There were a lot of things I never knew about her.’

Molly forced a weak smile. ‘A woman’s allowed her secrets, isn’t she?’

He huffed. It would have been a laugh on another day. ‘She certainly is. And Mary had a lot of them.’ He studied his coffee. ‘We didn’t tell anyone. Once it was over, there was no reason to. Sherlock figured it out, of course. He figures most everything out. But after that happened… Well.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose I thought we got a free pass. That was the one tragedy we’d have to get through. And we did, so I guess I wasn’t worried. And then when Mary died, I knew I was wrong. But still. We got through that. We’ve already gotten through so much.’

‘John--’

‘There’s got to be a limit, you know? Karma or fate or something like that. Wouldn’t you say so?’ She reached for his hand. ‘It’s just a bit weird is all. They’re so young, it’s not like they could have done anything to deserve this.’

‘Of course they haven’t.’

He smiled a little. ‘Sins of the father, I suppose?’

‘John?’ He glanced up at her, his eyebrows raised. Curious, expectant. It wasn’t the look she’d expected. ‘It’s okay to be scared.’

‘I’m not scared.’

‘It’s okay. I’m scared, too.’

‘Why?’

She frowned. ‘What do you mean, why?’

‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

‘John.’

‘I’m not delusional, alright? I know how bad things are. But he’s going to find them.’

‘John, please--’

‘I’m not preparing for the worst, Molly. He’s going to find them. If he can find a bloody rabbit in the middle of Dartmoor, he can find our boys.’ He took her hand then, his palm warm and dry around her fingers. ‘You’ve always been so good to us. You’ve given us so much.’

‘It’s alright.’

‘It’s not. Hey? You’ve done everything for us. And I’ll never be able to thank you for that.’

‘But… You’re my friends.’

His eyes were too dark, deep and sorrowful. Somewhere, she knew, John Watson was screaming, weeping, throwing himself against the walls in desperation. She knew that look. ‘This must be so hard for you.’

‘Yeah. Of course it is. I love those boys.’

‘Our boys.’

She swallowed. She nodded. ‘Our boys.’ His eyes found his cup once again. ‘I know what you’re doing.’

‘Oh?’

‘Sherlock did that, too. Before he-- Just before.’

He wet his lip. ‘He told me about that.’

Her fingers laced with his. She squeezed his hand. ‘You can’t hide from me, either.’

‘I don’t think anyone could hide from you.’

‘Please remind your son of that the next time he takes a mind to playing in the morgue.’

John almost laughed again. He remembered himself and rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. ‘I will. As soon as we find him, I’ll tell him first thing.’

‘Good. I don’t want to chase him out of here come Monday.’ 

He coughed a little. His eyes had yet to leave his cup. ‘He’s going to find them,’ he said again.

‘I know.’

‘We’ll deal with the rest of it after.’

‘Of course we will.’

John’s eyes met hers. Her mind danced with another conversation in this very building a hundred years before. He smiled, weak but relieved. ‘Of course we will,’ he echoed back.

***

It was quiet in the lab, and Sherlock was grateful for that. The flat had been too crowded, the Yard too loud. Even the ride to Bart’s was a mess of sirens and fear and Lestrade’s repeated assertions that they were doing everything possible to find the boys. Something had kept Sherlock from sniping that the Yard’s definition of ‘everything possible’ didn’t leave much room for optimism. He wasn’t sure if it was his own simmering distress that kept him silent or the thought of John’s carefully assembled mask breaking into pieces at his words. So he had stayed quiet, and he hadn’t looked at John.

God, John. 

He wasn’t in the lab. Molly had taken one look at Sherlock’s face and suggested they go grab a few coffees to help get everyone through the long night. He didn’t know how he was going to thank her for that. Molly was so much better at these sorts of things. John could talk to her and cry and say all of the things he wouldn’t say in front of him, all of the things he was certain would shatter Sherlock completely if they were uttered aloud. Molly would hold his hand and say the words John had to hear and nod in all the right places. She would be the person John needed, the person Sherlock didn’t know how to be, no matter how much he wanted to be that person and how hard he tried--

He shoved back from the microscope and scrubbed at his eyes. This line of thinking was getting him nowhere. He needed to turn it off. He ran his hands through his hair, focusing in on the glaring white laminate of the worktop in front of him. There were too many people he needed to thank, too many explanations he owed. Now wasn’t the time for that. He couldn’t be soft. He couldn’t be considerate. He had to be cold and he had to think and nothing mattered except solving the case. He would deal with the aftermath tomorrow.

John knew all of that. John would understand.

He glanced at the monitor next to him. He looked into the eyepiece and adjusted the angle of the slide.

He wished that John were with him.

_Sentiment_ , he thought.

The screen sped too fast for him to read it, coasting through the Yard’s database for a potential match to the grit on the upstairs bedroom floor. Seven hundred and thirty-eight failed matches so far. It would be faster for him to spot it on his own.

Clean cotton and strawberry jam. PG Tips on a Sunday afternoon. Strong arms wrapping tight around him, sturdy chin hooking over his shoulder, keeping him safe and grounded and loved.

_Nonsense_ , said a cold voice inside his head.

He turned to the cigarette butt in a Petri dish. Superkings 100s menthol. Alcohol residue on the filter, Tyr Connell. What was that bit from the book Hamish was reading? _Enough liquor in him to make him brave enough to kill children._ Something like that, not important, more trivia. DNA results--rushed thanks to Mycroft, another endless list of favours owed--had confirmed what he already knew. Pointless to check, really. But John had insisted. Good man, John Watson. The best of men.

An exasperated laugh. Playful teeth at his neck. Soft lullabies floating down from the room upstairs.

_That’s enough._

He fumbled for the worktop drawer and yanked out the battered box Molly had blessedly consented to keep on hand. He rolled up his sleeve and tore through the wrappers with his teeth, slapping three patches across the pale underside of his forearm. The effect was immediate: pupils dilating, heart pounding, the lab shifting into sharp, blinding focus. Seven years without a fix and a pathetic one at that. He couldn’t say he didn’t miss it. He stared with interest as the monitor slowed before him, each failed match seeming to pause and bow before giving way to the next. The halls of his mind buzzed with activity, sorting his encyclopaedic knowledge into neat little parcels, the mess of words and possibilities queuing up for his review.

The answer was here. Everything was right in front of him. Sebastian Moran, graduate of Eton, son of a man of power, a world of bad habits and legendary failures in one angry package and all he had to do was pull the right thread and the monster would unravel. He took a satisfied breath.

His eyes narrowed on the contents of his slide. Dried clay. Brick dust. Hints of asbestos. Factory, old, condemned. Something on the outskirts of the city. They hadn’t left London. Satisfaction pooled in his belly. ‘Idiot,’ he breathed.

He would deal with the aftermath tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For interested parties, the book Hamish is currently reading is 'To Kill A Mockingbird' by Harper Lee. If you haven't read it, you are sorely missing out. Hamish discovered it a few years before I did, but he's much cleverer than me. Also, Superkings 100s were what the kids were buying when I was 16 and spending a summer in Cambridge and none of us knew any better. Fun facts!


	4. Bel Canto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bel Canto (n; masc)  
> Beautiful voice.

He didn’t remember it being this cold when Moran had dragged them from their beds and tossed them into the back of his waiting van. The wind whipped across the frozen yard and chilled his bones. He heard Hamish trip and fall to the ground, gravel crunching under his knees. Flecks of glass and rubbish littered the landscape and sank into the soles of his feet. Something sharp struck his heel and he gasped, pulling it back to find it bleeding. _Not important now_ , he heard his father say. _Look around you. What do you observe?_

Industrial, dilapidated buildings. The façades were old, late Edwardian, factories, but there were fluorescent fixtures inside. Renovated, abandoned ten--no--twelve years ago. He glanced at the sky, estimating their location by the patterns of light pollution, the directions of the stars.

Moran shoved him away. ‘Go on, then. You’re in such a hurry.’

He turned, wide-eyed, his lips falling to a pout instantly. ‘I can’t go when you’re watching!’

Moran huffed. ‘You expect me to buy that, kid?’

‘I ca-an’t…’

‘It’s cold!’ Hamish whined. He refused to smirk.

Moran turned, his eyes rolling. ‘You’re the one what had to come along.’

‘You didn’t bring my jacket!’

‘Fuck off!’

‘Please!’ Will cried. ‘I gotta do a poo!’

‘Hey, what’s over here?’ Hamish had taken advantage of Moran’s momentary distraction and was halfway across the yard.

‘Oy!’ He growled and shoved Will towards an out building. ‘You’ve got one minute.’ He headed for Hamish, now crawling to inspect the belly of a rusting lorry.

Will ducked behind the shack and scrambled for options. London, north side, old factories. Were they still in the network’s territory? Dad always said the homeless could find him so long as he stayed inside the city. He absently dug a hole and squatted, flicking through his catalogue of options. Their father’s hobbies, while esoteric, often proved useful. He and Mr Wiggins had spread word of several alerts they’d devised in the wake of Moriarty’s return, all based on the ornithological inhabitants of Gloucestershire. Obviously out of place to those who knew better, but subtle to the casual listener. Will glanced around at his surroundings and made a guess, pursing his lips and whistling a nightingale call. Wrong season for them, even if one was confused enough to wander into London. He closed his eyes and forced his sphincter to relax as he imitated the call three more times.

He quickly did up his trousers and piled the hole with earth -- enough to cover, but not to hide his scent. He briefly wondered at this odd instinct. He gave his surroundings another looking over and noticed a small chunk of limestone near his feet. He snatched it up and scribbled a number onto the wall of the shed.

‘Oy! Time’s up! Get over here before I drag you out.’ Will smeared his hands with dirt and stepped out as he heard a tinny ping. Moran had Hamish by the collar, his eyes on the mobile in his hand. Hamish twitched a questioning eyebrow. He nodded once in reply and tried not to smile. ‘Well, well, well.’ His gaze returned to Moran, his stomach dropping at the obvious satisfaction on his face. ‘Looks like there’s a surprise inside for you lads.’

He didn’t dare look at Hamish. ‘What kind of surprise?’

‘Somebody’s been dying to meet you.’ He chuckled as if at some private joke and tucked his phone away, grabbing hold of Will. ‘Off we go, then. He don’t like to wait.’

Will’s pulse throbbed in his ears. He stole a glance at Hamish and found him wary, expectant, afraid.


	5. Scordatura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scordatura (n)  
> Mistuning.

John sat with his tongue held resolutely between his teeth, the tip cupping his incisors as if in thought. Now would not be a good time to contribute to the farce that surrounded him. Best to stay quiet, a spectator, and hope his presence was enough to snuff the blaze of Sherlock’s agitation. It wasn’t deserved, of course it wasn’t. Greg was doing his best, of that John had no doubts. The issue was that it was a puzzle only Sherlock Holmes could solve, and here was Sherlock Holmes: distracted, distraught. _Compromised_. Greg was trying -- desperate to succeed -- and Sherlock’s fury _was not helping_. John made a mental note to buy Greg several rounds after all this was over. Which would be soon, he reminded himself. Very soon.

‘What do you _mean_ , you don’t understand the parameters? They’re right _there_!’

‘Sherlock, I am _trying_. Not all of us catalogue tobacco ash on our days off.’

‘Obviously you should! Perhaps then you wouldn’t be wasting my time!’

Greg took a deep breath. ‘Just-- Explain it to me again. One more time.’

Sherlock growled and shoved the lab results into Greg’s hands, storming off to the opposite side of the room with an unnecessary comment about the inadequacies of Greg’s breeding. Greg ignored him and began reading over the file. ‘Limestone.’

‘Yes!’

‘Brickwork, asbestos, copper-- Sherlock, mate, this could be anywhere.’

‘Wrong! Industrial park, factory, late Edwardian _obviously_ based on the chemical makeup of the brick, no renovations since at least the 1990s based on the presence of asbestos. An _infant_ would understand!’

‘Right, and how many buildings in London fit that description?’

‘Not in London proper, a borough! An outskirt! Non-descript! He _wants_ to be _found_ , Lestrade!’

‘Then maybe he’ll leave you another clue,’ John murmured.

Sherlock stilled, his eyes wide. He spun and raced to his coat. John watched him.

‘He’s on something.’

‘What?’ Greg appraised the frenzied figure before them. ‘How can you tell?’

‘I can always tell.’

Sherlock found what he was looking for -- his mobile -- and gasped at the screen. He tore across the room and shoved the phone in Greg’s hands. Greg stared at the screen.

‘And that’s helpful, is it?’

Sherlock looked as though he may have a stroke. ‘My god, are you _blind_?!’

Greg, to his credit, did not strangle him. ‘It’s a pile of rubbish, Sherlock!’

‘ _Wrong_! That, you incompetent louse, is a partially incinerated Aeolian Orchestrelle, _obviously_!’

He gaped. ‘What the _fuck_ does that mean?’

‘Tell me, Lestrade, do you act ignorant just to annoy me?’

‘Sherlock,’ John warned. He yanked his mobile from Greg’s hands with a snarl and swirled away once more. ‘Explain, love. Just tell us what it is.’

‘Fine!’ He turned back, his fingers flying across the screen of his phone. ‘You are familiar, I trust, with the pianola or player piano; neither of you were born under a rock in spite of all evidence to the contrary--’

‘Sherlock--’

‘An _Orchestrelle_ is of a similar design, but with the intention of mimicking an orchestra rather than a piano. American invention, its predecessor was first seen at the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1876, hence the name. Mark Twain had one, you’ve heard of him perhaps.’

‘ _Of course I’ve bloody heard of him_.’

‘They crossed the pond and Aeolian opened up factories in Thuringia and--’ His free hand slammed against the map currently hung on the wall. ‘Hayes.’

‘How could you _possibly_ know that?’ Greg was fuming, his hands balled into fists at his side. 

‘Grand-mère had one, not that it’s important at this particular moment in time. Hayes. Now.’

‘So we’re just barrelling into some abandoned warehouse somewhere without backup and with no idea what might be inside?’

Sherlock’s voice took on a sudden, terrifying chill. ‘Lestrade. The next clue and possibly two missing children are within the remaining walls of that factory not twenty-five kilometres from here and we do not have time to discuss the paltry details. Hayes. Now. _Did I stammer_?’

Greg gave him a hard stare, jaw set, not even his pupils shifting at Sherlock’s icy tone. ‘I’ll get the car. I’m phoning for backup on the way.’

‘We’ll meet you downstairs.’ Greg nodded curtly and turned to the door, his gaze levelling on John a moment before he left, an apology hiding beneath his simmering anger. Sherlock was already pulling on his coat. John closed his eyes.

‘Please tell me it’s just patches.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You know what I’m talking about.’

Sherlock paused for just a moment, imperceptible to anyone else. ‘Molly keeps a box for me in the lab. Just in case.’

‘How many?’

‘How many do you think?’

‘Christ…’

‘I have to think, John.’

‘You promised.’

‘I did. And I have kept that promise for seven years.’ He glowered, and John realised with a start that he hadn’t been on the receiving end of that expression since Dartmoor. ‘Now is not the time to question my methods.’

‘Sherlock--’

‘I’m going to find them.’

‘Of course you are. But I’m not about to lose you, too.’ Pain blossomed in his left palm, nails digging into his skin in a way they hadn’t in years. He stretched his fingers gingerly, eyes not leaving the almost-familiar gaze of the man before him. ‘We’re wasting time,’ he muttered and turned, his gait impossibly steady as he headed for the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For interested parties, the factory the boys are in is based on the Benlow Works in Hayes (http://tinyurl.com/la5c2x8). I'm taking some licenses since I have never been inside this building (it's still in use and I don't want an ASBO) and, you know, libel, but the great thing is that this series actually takes place in the future so I'm pretending it was abandoned completely around the time Will was born. FICTION.
> 
> Also, a fair warning to all those reading: the next chapter is going to get violent and upsetting. PLEASE heed the warnings!! I don't want to accidentally scar anyone for life. Consensual scarring only.


	6. Primo uomo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Primo uomo (n)  
> Leading man.

They stumbled back into the warehouse, a tight grip on the backs of their necks. Will fell first, landing on the dusty concrete and holding back a cough. Hamish dropped slower. His eyes were locked on something across the room. Will followed his gaze and found he couldn’t breathe any longer.

‘Hi-i,’ came the cry from across the expansive room, mellifluous and high, chilling in its amicability. He saw Hamish twitch out of the corner of his eye. It was all the explanation he needed. ‘Goodness me, you two have grown. Why don’t you come closer so I can have a look at you?’ Neither of them moved. Moriarty grinned. ‘Oh, they’re _shy_... How adorable! Sebbie, be a lamb and bring the boys over here, would you?’ They were yanked to their feet once more and dragged across the room. Will clawed at Moran’s hand to no avail, eyes wild as he sought out his brother. Hamish was so still, drinking in their captor as if he were a particularly interesting passage of _Hard Times_. They were dumped again onto the floor half a metre from Moriarty’s bouncing foot. ‘Well now. That’s much better, isn’t it? Close enough for a little chat.’

His clothing was immaculate despite the grimy room: a three-piece suit and perfect Windsor knot. His legs were crossed at the knee, his foot close enough that Will could see his reflection in the shiny leather. His breath reeked of cinnamon and he popped his gum when he smiled. He leant forward, his hands clasped between his knees. ‘How time does fly. The wee William is so grown up. Have you started secondary yet?’ Will clenched his fist but didn’t reply. ‘Feeling reticent, are we? There’s no need. We’re all friends here, aren’t we? Aren’t we friends, Sebbie?’

‘Sure, boss. We’re friends.’

‘See there? No reason to keep to yourself. And Johnny would just hate for you to be rude. Now be a good lad and tell me what year you are.’

Something cold and cylindrical nudged the base of Will’s skull. Hamish tensed beside him. He swallowed. ‘Next year.’

‘Next year?’ He nodded. ‘Are you excited?’ He nodded again. ‘I loved secondary. Well, I did after my first year. Really came into my own then.’ Moriarty winked. ‘How’s your football game?’

Will felt his cheeks pale and hated them for it. ‘Fine.’

‘Just fine?’

He sucked his bottom lip. ‘It’s really good, actually.’

‘There. It’s okay to be proud. Honesty is the best policy after all. Just don’t be boastful. That’s your father’s biggest problem.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Well, no, I suppose _I’m_ your father’s biggest problem, but he did it to himself.’ He swung toward Hamish. Will tugged against his bound wrists. ‘And you! Little Hamish, our miracle of science. I always wondered if my old flames might get together. We had a bet going, didn’t we, Seb?’

‘We did, boss.’

‘Sebbie didn’t think it would happen,’ he whispered. ‘He’s not much of a romantic. But we showed him, didn’t we? How much do you owe us, Sebbie?’

‘Twenty quid.’

He let loose a delighted gasp. ‘How’s that, Hamish? You just won us twenty quid! What do you say we split it?’

‘Leave him alone!’ Will shouted.

‘Shh shh shh… Hush now, noodle. It’s your brother’s turn to speak.’ He clicked his tongue and frowned at Moran. ‘So impatient, these Watsons. Wasn’t Johnny the same way?’

‘Struggled so much he made me snap his wrist.’

‘He did! And with a wife at home and everything.’ He sighed. ‘Chivalry is dead after all. What a shame.’ 

‘Don’t talk about our dad like that!’

‘Oh _my_!’ He grinned. ‘Touched a nerve, have I? Oh, I _am_ sorry…’

‘Will,’ Hamish whispered.

‘He’s got Johnny’s temper, too. Isn’t it precious, Sebbie?’ His arm looped around Moran’s broad shoulders. ‘A wee Captain Watson all to ourselves.’

Hamish caught Will’s eye and gave his head an almost imperceptible shake. Will’s brow furrowed in dissent.

‘It sure is.’

‘I want to play with him, Sebbie.’

‘I think you should, boss.’

He skipped away and bent at the waist to peruse Hamish. ‘What do you think, Hammy? Should I tease your big brother a bit?’

‘Stop it!’ Will shrieked, ‘Leave him alone!’

Moriarty smirked. Hamish’s eyes--grey today, bright and dry--didn’t waver from his gaze. ‘Bit protective, isn’t he?’ His nose crinkled. ‘Looks like your daddy never taught him what happens when you show your hand.’ Moriarty tilted his head to one side, appraising the small figure before him. ‘Sebbie, tie William to the chair, would you? He’s liable to hurt himself.’

‘No!’ Will lashed out as big hands fell on his arms, yanking him toward the metal chair. His legs kicked wildly, directionless, seeking soft skin and sensitive joints. Moran was huge: his arms roped with veins and belly hard with muscle. He hauled Will up and strapped him to the chair with little effort. ‘Mish!’

‘Seventy-six,’ Hamish whispered.

‘Mish, please!’

‘Seventy-six,’ he said again.

‘God, just _run_!’

‘Is he ever _loud_! Is he always like this?’

‘Want me to shut him up, boss?’

‘Hm… What do you think, sweetheart?’ Hamish didn’t reply. ‘Sebbie, encourage him.’ Moran pressed his gun to Will’s temple and flicked off the safety. Will froze. Hamish’s eyes met his. To anyone else, they would seem impassive, calculating. Will knew better. ‘Come come, Hammy, won’t you talk to me?’

His gaze returned to Moriarty, his voice pleasant and unperturbed. ‘I haven’t anything to say.’

‘Ah. You don’t talk much, do you?’

‘No, sir.’

He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You’re a very polite child.’

‘Thank you.’

He turned to Will. ‘You could learn something from your brother. Pay attention.’ Will yanked at his ropes and Moriarty chuckled. He returned his attentions to Hamish. ‘How are you, little one? Cold? Hungry?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He nodded sympathetically. ‘Scared?’

Hamish squinted in thought. ‘No, sir.’

‘No?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘I don’t see any reason to be.’

‘Ah. Well.’ Moriarty tugged up his trouser legs and crouched before him, his voice conspiratorial. ‘See Sebbie over there?’ Hamish nodded. ‘Well…’ He grimaced. ‘He’s going to hurt you an awful lot.’

‘I know he is.’

‘And I’m going to hurt you, too.’ He shrugged. ‘And your brother.’

‘I thought you might.’

‘But you’re not scared?’ He shook his head. Moriarty nodded. ‘You think your daddy will come save you.’

‘No, sir.’

Moran chuckled. ‘Smart kid.’

‘I think my daddy will find you,’ he clarified. ‘But Papa will save us.’ Will had never heard his voice sound clearer. ‘And then he’s going to kill you both.’

Moriarty was delighted. Something sick and heavy squirmed in Will’s belly. ‘Your papa kills people, does he?’

‘Yes, sir, he certainly does.’

‘That’s not a very nice thing to do.’

‘You’re not a nice very man.’

His smile was almost kind, his hand reaching to pet Hamish’s tangled hair. Fury blossomed anew in Will’s chest. ‘No, darling,’ he cooed. ‘I’m not a nice man at all.’ He patted Hamish affectionately and stood, coming behind Will and tugging the chair backwards a metre or more. Panic surged within him and he thrashed against his bonds. ‘Shh… Patience, noodle! So excitable! Just wait, just wait.’ Moriarty plopped on the floor beside Will’s chair, his arms circling his bent knees. He grinned and waggled his brows at Will before turning back to the proceedings. ‘Seb, pet, I think you ought to pay Hammy back for the bet you lost. What was it, twenty?’

Moran was pulling his belt from his trousers, folding it calmly as he smirked at Hamish. ‘That’s right, twenty.’

Moriarty scrunched his nose and shrugged. ‘Sorry, Hammy. Looks like twenty is what you owe him.’ Moran kicked and Hamish fell prostrate to the floor with a small, startled gasp.

‘ _Mish_!’ The leather slapped against his skin with a deafening crack.


	7. Passaggio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Passaggio (v)  
> Crossing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: this chapter and the one following it make several references to an earlier fic in this series, [Père Noël](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2353232). You may want to give it a quick read to avoid potential confusion. I think this can be read without reading Père Noël, but it's also short and fluffy and you might need an emotional cuddle break after last chapter anyway.

The panda car swerved through traffic, sirens blaring, Lestrade spitting venom at the other drivers. Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on the passing streets, unconsciously counting down every kilometre. John was beside him, his silence wrapped tight around him like a blanket.

Sherlock wanted to scream.

His mind flailed for a distraction, something, _anything_ , to slow his useless, racing thoughts. He landed on John and Hamish’s birthday -- when was that? A month ago, six weeks? Surely no more than that. The boys were at school, so they’d spent the day in bed, kissing and touching at a pace they weren’t often afforded. And John had grinned up at him, looking impish and delighted and so terribly young, his short fingers sliding into sweaty curls, tugging and laughing and promising any number of pretty, sentimental things.

He’d meant those things, Sherlock knew. Every single one. And Sherlock had believed him. He still believed him.

_Not now._ There was work still to do. Get through this awful night. Finish this, solve the case, bring them home. Easiest thing in the world. He’d done it a thousand times with a thousand less important little boys.

It would be Christmas soon. John and Hamish would make a fuss over the fairy lights and garlands while he and Will puzzled through study questions for his 11-plus. Sherrinford and Elaina would appear, all soft smiles and sturdy arms. And once the boys were in bed and Elaina had John in a corner with a French phrasebook, he’d tell Sherrinford about tonight. And his brow would soften, his big paw squeezing Sherlock’s knobby knee, voice soft as silk, ‘You did it, Bees. You won. You know that, don’t you?’

It didn’t feel like winning. Not at the moment. John’s furious reticence and Lestrade panicking and the cold terror settling deeper and deeper in his gut -- none of it felt like a win.

_God, just let them be all right._

He didn’t remember this sensation, this gnawing anxiety creeping up like bile in his throat. Like withdrawal. Like the only trip he'd ever made to a veterinarian’s office. He thought he’d known fear, grief, heartbreak. He was wrong. And how dear Jim would laugh at _that_. The thought made him sick.

Would there even be a Christmas this year?

His teeth sunk into his lip as he willed himself not to look at John. How was it possible that a person could be so close and seem so far away? If he shifted, their hands might touch. Would that make things worse? Better? Did it even matter anymore?

He hated not knowing what to do.

Of all the small miracles in the universe that could have happened at that moment, his phone buzzed. Sherlock’s fingers flew to find it.

‘Is that him?’ Lestrade’s voice was hopeful.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. He glanced at John, saw his fingers clenched around his phone and wedged against the door. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Something else. No matter.’ Lestrade huffed, his eyes returning to the road. Sherlock flicked open the screen.

_I’m not angry with you._

Sherlock peeked at John. He typed a reply.

_Available evidence points to the contrary. –SH_

He could have sworn John’s lip tilted up as he read the text. The vice around his chest relaxed but minimally.

_I’m angry, I’m bloody furious. But it isn’t with you._

_I see. –SH_

_Do you? Stop worrying about me and think, all right?_

Sherlock turned to him then, his jaw tight, eyes worried. They shifted and met his own. Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest, just as it did every time.

‘Why would he let Moran keep the boys?’ Sherlock muttered.

‘What?’ Lestrade called. ‘Did you say something, Sherlock?’

‘We both know he doesn’t trust him.’ 

John shook his head. ‘And killing them is too _obvious_.’

‘He’d save it for something special.’ A cog in his mind clicked into place. ‘He’s there.’

John smiled grimly. ‘Of course he is.’

‘What’s going on?’ Lestrade’s brows furrowed. ‘Should we turn around?’

Sherlock didn’t hear him. ‘He’s there and letting Moran get his hands dirty.’ Sherlock drank him in a moment, wetting his lips. ‘You’re the genius in this relationship, John.’

John shrugged. ‘It’s just what you always say, isn’t it? There’s nothing more elusive than an obvious fact.’

He nodded. ‘Lestrade, we won’t make it in time to catch them.’

‘What? _Them_?’ The car slowed a moment. Lestrade cleared his throat. ‘Why?’

‘He’s not done and he won’t be caught by us. Did you phone for backup yet?’

‘Not in that traffic.’

‘Do it now. Moriarty is already on the move.’

‘Moriarty?’ Lestrade paled, his eyes widened. ‘You said "them".’

‘Yes.’

‘And the boys?’

Sherlock turned to the window. ‘They’re his calling card, of course.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going to be a short one because it's been extremely hard for me to write. Fair warning: continued horrible stuff ahead.


	8. Marcato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcato (n)  
> Marked.

The room was blurry; his eyes too heavy to remain fully open. His gaze was fixed on Will as it had been for time immeasurable. He’d been shaking for the past several forevers and Hamish wished he would stop. Every inch of him ached, the pain dull now in its reliability. His back had stopped bleeding but felt tacky, itchy where his tattered shirt clung to his welts. He could no longer feel his toes for the cold.

_It could be worse_ , he thought and almost giggled at the absurdity.

_Ah. So_ this _is what shock feels like._

Will’s pyjama bottoms were slung low on his hips, the pale skin of his rump barely visible from this angle. Hamish knew he was in a similar state. _That_ still hurt, of course. He suspected it would never _stop_ hurting. His entire bottom half throbbed, the scent of seared flesh still caught in his nostrils. He forced himself to stop thinking about it before he chundered again. The man in the hat was gone, Moriarty had vanished, but even so he was loath to give them the satisfaction. 

It wouldn’t be long now. It couldn’t be long now.

How long had he been saying that?

He didn’t want to close his eyes. Somehow he knew that, if he did, his mind would be filled with Moriarty’s dead eyes, his open-mouthed grin as he eased the brand into its makeshift forge. Will’s screams already echoed in his ears. He didn’t need more of the memory than that. He watched Will tremble and listened to his laboured breaths, his body curling tighter into itself, oblivious to everything except his own pain. Hamish wished he could do the same.

His thoughts began to spiral, landing on ideas and memories like a bee on shifting petals. It was only fair, he supposed, that if he and Will were lucky enough to have Father Christmas that the Bogeyman be real as well. Not real, _present_. Concrete. Sankt Nikolaus and Knecht Ruprecht. Angels and the fallen. Gran would like that, the poetry of it. He was so _tired_. Where was Papa? He had to come. Dad had to find them. He’d been so sure. Will was weeping, soft and broken. Would Will ever stop weeping? He didn’t think so. Not after this. 

He missed his books. He missed the quiet adventures that only happened in his head. He missed the battered sofa and disappearing before Dad’s keen eyes simply by being quiet and still. He missed Mrs H and Dad and Papa more than anything and it hit him suddenly that if he really was about to die, he would never be able to give Sam her book back and she would never, ever forgive him for that, not after what Will did to her jumper last month, and the thought filled him with a fury he had never before experienced. Then he saw Will again and it fizzled out faster than it had appeared.

He hated his limbs for aching, for betraying him now. Will needed him. Will was cold, hurt, frightened. If he could move, he could go to him, cuddle close even if Will was too big for that now. But his arms were tied, his legs numb, his body throbbing. He couldn’t even see--

_Shock_. His pulse was elevated. He wasn’t breathing very well. He counted to five while he inhaled, exhaled, repeated ten times. It didn’t help much. The skin of his back split from the exertion and blood trickled merrily across his spine.

Perhaps it would be alright if he closed his eyes; perhaps the monsters would let him rest. Perhaps he would wake up in his own bed, all of this a bad dream. Why not? Everything else was possible today. 

As his body gave in to exhaustion, he thought he heard rusty hinges complain, a heavy door scraping across concrete. He was certain he’d imagined it, though.


	9. Alla Marcia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alla marcia (adj)  
> As a march.

The world moved at a funereal pace.

John’s eyes found every corner and cranny as he hurried across the room to their small, stricken forms. No shadows, no scuffling in the background. Lucky, perhaps, but suspicious more than anything. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. It was them, he knew; knew it the moment he stepped into the room. Will was shaking, but Mish was so still. Not dead, couldn’t be dead, John would _know_ if he was dead. The thought was gone in a second, his mind once more precise, calculating, assessing every potential danger. 

Tomorrow he would hate himself for how easy it all was. 

He was beside them now, voice measured, slow. ‘Will, can you hear me?’ 

The boy jumped, his body stiff, cold. A cracking voice whispering, ‘Papa?’ 

‘I’m here, bug. I’m right here.’ His fingers brushed through filthy hair. ‘Do you know where they’ve gone?’ Will coughed and shook his head. ‘Alright. That’s okay.’ He found himself shifting, tugging up Will’s pyjama bottoms without a thought as to what he was doing. He untied his wrists deftly. ‘I’m going to your brother now, alright?’ 

‘They--’ His voice broke. 

‘I know, baby. Can you walk?’ Will nodded. ‘Daddy’s just outside, okay? Uncle Greg too.’ His fingers found Hamish’s carotid, his gun still trained on the surrounding room.

‘Why aren’t they here?’ 

‘They’re looking for you.’ His pulse was weak, rapid. John tugged up his bottoms as well, eyes flicking to his bloody back. He choked down his own cry and took in the wounds for what they were. Puffy with infection, recent, too shallow for stitches but wanting steri-strips and bandages-- 

‘Papa?’ He paused long enough to turn to Will. His freckles were startling against his white skin. ‘I don’t want him to see me like this,’ he whispered. 

John touched his cheek. It was icy and damp. ‘We’re almost out of this, bug. They’re never going to hurt you again.’ Will closed his eyes. John petted him. ‘Let’s get out of here, alright?’ 

‘Okay.’ 

‘Okay.’ He tugged the rope from Hamish’s wrists. The gun found its way into his waistband and he hefted the tiny body into a fireman’s hold. His other hand tugged Will against him. ‘Watch my six?’ Will nodded again and pressed closer. ‘Good lad.’ 

It was a long, slow trip back through the factory. Will’s feet found every imperfection in the concrete, his quiet, breathy cries echoing throughout the empty rooms. John slowed his pace despite his better judgment, one arm still behind him, his hand against Will’s heaving belly. 

‘Easy now, bug. Nice and slow. I’ve got you.’ He didn’t know if his words would do any good. 

It was somehow colder outside. Hamish awoke with a startled gasp, his arms flailing. 

‘Hey hey hey…’ He lowered both of them to his knee meeting Hamish’s frenzied eyes. ‘Hullo there. You’re okay.’ 

‘Papa!’ 

‘That’s right. I’m here.’ Will was before him once more, crouched, itching to touch his brother and too scared to do so. 

‘You came.’ 

‘Yeah. Of course I did.’ 

‘You came.’ He coughed suddenly, his body convulsing. John’s mind went blank and clinical: wet expulsions, wracking, needs fluid and warmth and steroids. 

‘I always will.’ He smoothed the fabric covering Hamish’s chest. It seemed thinner than usual. ‘Your dad’ll be here soon, okay?’ 

‘Knew you’d come…’ 

‘You’re a very smart boy.’ John pulled Hamish against his chest once more. ‘Hush now. Don’t talk.’

A sudden crash streaked through the sky. John’s gun was out and trained at the door, Will shoved behind him with a startled yelp. Door slamming, gunfire, it didn’t matter. John’s eyes narrowed. His hand did not shake. 

He waited. Will began to cry. 

‘John?’ Sherlock. His voice sounded wrong. ‘John, Lestrade is behind me. Take the boys to the car.’

‘Daddy!’ 

‘It’s alright, darling. It’s just me and Uncle Greg. Go to the car, alright?’ Will started to stand, took a step toward the door. The gravel shuffled under his feet. ‘No, darling, go to the car now. I’ll be right there.’ 

‘Sherlock, are you alright?’ John ignored the dull pounding in his ears. 

‘I’m not letting him out of my sight, John.’ 

‘Right.’ The gun was in his waistband once more. He hefted Hamish up and offered Will a reassuring smile. ‘Come on, bug. It’s warmer in the car.’ 

‘But Dad--’ 

‘He’s just behind us. Let’s to the car.’ 

Will walked beside him reluctantly. John swallowed down the bile in his throat as he led the boys to Greg’s car.


	10. Da Capo al Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Da Capo al fine (v)  
> From beginning to end.

Finding Moran was always too easy. He should have known.

The factory was too large, too many crevices and hiding places and pits where Moriarty could stash two little boys. They had to split up. He didn’t trust the creaking building and he was certain Moran would sneak up on them again, but John had insisted and John was always right and he’d follow John into oblivion without a second thought. So Lestrade headed up the stairs and John headed west and Sherlock took the last obviously disturbed route and went searching for the boys.

He didn’t find them.

What he found instead, after a few minutes of aimless searching, was an apple placed pointedly in the centre of a large, dilapidated room. Moriarty hadn’t bothered to carve letters into it this time

He stood like a fool staring at it, blood boiling, skin prickling with fear. Ossified. A trap so obvious and yet he fell for it. A weight plummeted from the ceiling and Sherlock crashed to the ground, roaring, struggling for purchase. His fingers were flexed, nails digging into whatever skin he could find. And Moran laughed and laughed, soft and low and inordinately pleased.

‘What’s the matter, Mr Holmes? Ashamed I got the drop on you?’ He growled catlike and somehow managed to roll them. His knees pinned Moran’s arms to the ground. ‘The Boss said you liked a bit of a tussle. Am I more fun than Watson, then?’

A switch flicked off in Sherlock’s mind and all logic and reason were lost, replaced by fear and fury and an animalistic need to destroy. His fists flew, clawing and beating at the prone man beneath him. He was deaf to his own feral howls, the sounds miniscule compared the rushing in his ears, the screaming in his heart at the monster below him, the one he knew he would not find, grotesque imaginings of what may have transpired since he last saw his children.

‘ _Sherlock_!’ Rough hands tugged at him, yanking him from his quarry. He snarled, lashing out at the figure tearing him away. ‘Sherlock, stop it!’ Lestrade tossed him aside. ‘That’s enough!’ Moran chuckled through his damaged nose, the blood congealing on his face. Lestrade rolled him to his belly and slapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. ‘We’re taking him in, alright?’

‘Ooo, and that worked so well the last time…’ Moran sang. The butt of Lestrade’s gun met Moran’s temple and the man went ragdoll. Sherlock stared, panting, his eyes dazed as they found Lestrade’s. He cleared his throat.

‘I, uh. Standard police procedure. With…difficult repeat offenders.’

‘Of course.’

‘Incapacitation and all.’

‘Right.’

‘Nothing untoward.’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Right. Well. Shall we?’

They hauled him up and dragged him from the building. Lestrade was on the radio, searching for their backup. Still a minute or two away, approaching with caution. Sherlock’s eyes were trained on the ruins around them. No sign of Moriarty. No sign of John. Had he found the boys? Were they safe? He didn’t know and he _hated_ not knowing. Moran groaned softly, not yet among the waking but it wouldn’t be long. They were nearly at the entrance. Sherlock shifted his hold as they neared the door and thumped Moran against a wall in what he would no doubt later claim was an easy mistake.

The click of a gun. He would know that sound anywhere. British army issue Browning L9A1. Silence. Soft tears. He wasn’t sure if it was a moment later or a lifetime. ‘John?’ No response. He knew he sounded tired, strained, as frightened as he was. But John was outside. John would never leave the building without the boys in hand. He pressed on. ‘John, Lestrade is behind me. Take the boys to the car.’

‘Daddy!’

His heart clenched. Will. He closed his eyes, ignoring Lestrade’s knowing gaze at the tears brewing there. ‘It’s alright, darling. It’s just me and Uncle Greg. Go to the car, alright?’ Will was coming to him, needed him, needed to know his daddy was alright. ‘No, darling, go to the car now. I’ll be right there.’

‘Sherlock, are you alright?’ John, so calm, so focused, he’d be a wreck once they reached home. Sherlock took a breath and strangled the thought for now. He looked at the lilting man beside him, his anger flaring once more.

‘I’m not letting him out of my sight, John.’

‘Right.’ Shuffling behind the door. Soft words of reassurance as John gathered up Will and led him to the car. No mention of Hamish, no sound of his voice. Panic gripped Sherlock’s chest, useless, hateful panic. He heard sirens in the distance.

‘Thank Christ,’ Lestrade whispered. They weren’t alone now. Help was coming. Sherlock readjusted Moran. He heard the car doors close and footsteps near. Limping. He hadn’t heard that sound in years.

Tyres on the gravel as the cavalry arrived. John stopped and stepped aside to let them pass. Lestrade opened the door and Sherlock stepped through. He was more than happy to hand the lilting, moaning Moran to a pair of officers. There was John, jaw set, meeting them halfway as they made room for the Hayes Met.

‘Nothing of Moriarty?’ Sherlock shook his head. John’s fist tightened. ‘Right.’ He turned to Lestrade. ‘We need to take the boys to A&E. Your car, not an ambulance, I don’t care what you say. They’re badly dehydrated, injured, Hamish especially needs attention.’

‘Hamish--’

‘Yes, Sherlock, of course Hamish. If you’re needed here, Sherlock can drive your car--’

‘Daddy!’ Sherlock turned, stomach tumbling. Will was out of the car, running toward him. Hamish stood just outside the door, too pale, too frightened, but alive. John was racing toward them, shouting to them to get into the car, Sherlock following, then movement in his periphery, a flash as a pair of handcuffs fell and two officers dropped to the ground--

A pop, a rush, close enough to burn his ear. His shoulder twitched and shuddered of its own volition and the thought crept into his mind that something was more than usually wrong. Lestrade standing straight, arms extended in front of him, face grim, looking like the hero from those ridiculous films he and John were obsessed with, Jim or Jack or someone, the bloke in the tux. He’d moved automatically, like a dancer, tight pivot, arms lifting, the recoiling of his firearm the only indication that anything wasn’t meticulously choreographed. A shout from behind them as his aim rang true and Moran crumbled in a heap.

God, it _hurt_. How could he forget how much it bloody _hurt_?

John.

His eyes sought him out before he could register his own condition: on the ground, Will and Mish tucked beneath him, boys screaming something, couldn’t hear what, no blood, no wound, he’d moved without a second thought. Good man, John Watson. Best man in the world. Kept them safe. Gotten them to the ground. John was safe. Boys were safe. Sherlock was

God, did it _hurt_.

In his shoulder, just under the blade, downward angle, major arteries affected? List of scapular arteries in alphabetical order: circumflex, dorsal, suprascapular-- Not sure _not sure_ must focus assess the damage. Deep breath-- Not possible. Lung, then. Exit wound? Look down no blood just _hurt hurt hurt_ , Good Lord, he’s the luckiest man in history. Two shots, chest lung shoulder, bullets packing him like newspaper and sell-o tape, who else can say the same? _HURT_. Knees, then, go down slow. Down slow and wait and _hurt_ you might not wake up from this, Bees. This might really be it this time.

_God._

Pavement scratchy gravel digging into knees never changed from the ballet never made it into the clean shirt John had brought to Bart’s god John sorry John should’ve listened to you and changed _I don’t want to die in a filthy shirt!_ Boys safe. John safe. More important. So cold why so cold? Belstaff in Greg’s car good thing too they’d never get the bloodstain out and _why am I thinking of this?_ Coats and shirts and _never got John on the trust never gave him power of attorney and god what’s going to happen to them when I’m gone?_ It never seemed important until now maybe Mycroft will work something out maybe he can pull some strings _or Dad or Mr Wilton but he can’t he’s dead now like me I’m dead now I’m_

_God, this bloody HURTS._

‘SHERLOCK!’

Shock now in shock pain hasn’t killed you it’s the next thing that will panic and cold and dark around the edges calm down calm down _calm the fuck down!_ Something anything boys in the tree in Mummy’s back garden and Mrs Hudson’s biscuits and Redbeard and Sherrinford last Christmas Mycroft sick on treacle fudge 1985 Hamish reading Will at football he’s so good at it now and I don’t understand a word of it seventy-six seventy-six _seventy-six_ Molly at John’s wedding that ridiculous bow in her hair and life is so good now so much better so perfect I can’t leave it all behind can’t leave them _please_ John’s smile John’s laugh John’s lips on mine hand in my hair cold metal on my chest my head in his lap my

‘John.’

‘Sherlock, Christ, _no_ , stop it, bloody just--’ 

Hard press shoulder _hurt_ jacket too cold mustn’t worry boys

‘Just _stop it_! Don’t you dare, Sherlock Holmes! Not _fucking_ now!’

‘’M trying--’

‘Bloody try harder! Don’t you dare, love, don’t you fucking leave me again!’

Jumper warm scratchy jeans on cheek cedar sandalwood witch hazel home press hard hard hard and _hurting_ gasping pain John smell John touch John getting dark

‘Sherlock! Fuck no, stop it! _Stop it right now!_ ’

‘Tired.’

‘No, love-- Please--’

‘John.’


	11. Segue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Segue (v)  
> It follows.

Bright lights, white and harsh and far too aggressive. Hospital. Every inch of him on fire. The sting of a catheter in need of changing. _Damn._ He tried to shift, remove it, and found he couldn’t. A wave of panic washed over him. Paralysed? _God, no. Please, God, no._ But then how did he know he hurt? How did he know the nurse on duty was running behind? His eyes fluttered open and found eleven-odd stone of explanation pulled tight against his side and chest: dishevelled and sweaty and twitching in his sleep.

_John._

His hand came up and carded through short, greying hair. How much of that grey was his fault by now? Most, he suspected, perhaps all. Still softer than imaginable, still thick and lovely and smelling vaguely like his own shampoo. John started, his dark eyes flying open. He stilled as Sherlock’s face came into view. Sherlock turned his head and ignored the screaming of his back, kissing John’s forehead with dry, cracking lips. John pulled himself closer, his head on Sherlock’s intact right shoulder. Sherlock smoothed a cowlick in his hair.

‘Three times.’

Sherlock swallowed. 

‘I’ve had to watch you die three times now.’

‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘I know.’ His shuddering breath was the worst sound in the world, far worse than gunshots or police sirens or their small and terrified son. Sherlock held him close, face buried in his hair, as John’s tears stung and pooled against his skin. ‘I swear-- If you ever do that to me again, I swear to God I’ll kill you.’

‘I came back,’ he whispered. John choked. He wrapped him closer. ‘I’ve always come back to you.’

‘I know, sweetheart.’

‘And I always will.’

‘I don’t want to test that theory, alright? Never again.’

‘Alright, John.’

‘ _Fuck_.’ He sniffed and wiped at his face with his sleeve. ‘Sherly, Jesus…’ He shook his head, eyes still heavy with tears as he gazed down at Sherlock. ‘Thank Christ--’ Sherlock’s hand found his hair once more and he valiantly fought back a whimper as John’s mouth attacked his own. A laugh bubbled up in his chest. ‘What? What is it?’

Thick giggles poured from him. John wiped at his streaming eyes. ‘Gently!’

John choked on a laugh. He pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s temple. ‘That’s all you can think to say at a time like this? Gently?’ Sherlock grinned and snuffled. ‘God…’ He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. ‘Daft bugger. I’m furious with you.’

‘You should be.’

‘Christ…’ Sherlock butted against his hand. ‘Leave me all alone with two boys, will you? Your mother has a lot to answer for.’

‘Take it up with her at Christmas.’ He noticed something over John’s shoulder and squinted. ‘John. There are little bunnies on the wallpaper.’

John glanced behind him. ‘Indeed there are.’

‘Are there supposed to be little bunnies on the wallpaper, John?’

‘You’re in children’s. I wanted us all to be together.’

‘The boys are next door.’

‘They are.’

‘Asleep.’

‘Yes.’

He cupped John’s cheek. ‘You should go to them.’

‘They’ll be out ’til morning.’ 

Sherlock nodded. A sudden thought occurred to him. ‘And Moran?’

‘He’s dead.’ His eyes grew darker. ‘Do you know what he did to them?’ Sherlock shook his head. ‘I don’t believe--’ His voice cracked. ‘Sherlock--’

‘I know, darling.’ His thumb slid along John’s cheekbone. He realised how close he had been to never doing that again. ‘I’ll find him.’

‘No.’ John caught his hand. His fingers slid into Sherlock’s hair as he pressed their foreheads together. ‘No, _we’ll_ find him. _We’ll_ find him and _we’ll_ take him down. Just like we should’ve done before.’

Sherlock swallowed. ‘I always forget that bit.’

‘I know you do. It’s bloody obnoxious.’ His grip tightened. ‘It’s you and me now, always together. No more splitting up, no more running off alone, no more bringing him down single-handedly. He’s taken you away from me twice now and I swear to God it will _never_ happen again. Do you understand me, you great prat?’

Sherlock was crying. He had no idea when that had happened. ‘I understand. I do, John, I promise.’

‘He will _never_ hurt you again. He will _never_ touch our boys. And if he’s stupid enough to try, I will put a bullet between his eyes and sleep all the better for it. I don’t care if that makes me bitter. He’s not hurting my family again.’

Sherlock felt as though he was being strangled. He coughed and the pain in his lungs was blinding. John grabbed a pan wordlessly as Sherlock rolled to his side and held it as he wretched. It should have been disgusting, but Sherlock found he didn’t care. He blinked and was on his back again, a cool flannel upon his forehead and John’s furrowed face above him.

‘’S not.’

‘What’s that, love?’

Sherlock cleared his throat with some effort. ‘’S not bitter.’

John smiled a little and shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes, it does.’ Sherlock grabbed his wrist, squeezing until John’s eyes met his own once more. ‘You’re a good man, John Watson. The best and bravest man I have ever known.’

‘Now I know you’re buttering me up.’

‘I’m not.’ He wet his lips. Something trembled in his chest. ‘I just-- For a moment there, I thought I would never be able to tell you that again.’

John smoothed his hair with his free hand. How filthy it must be right now: tacky and tangled, full of grease from his own fingers and factory dust. And yet here was John, and his eyes seemed to say that he had never seen anything as beautiful or precious in his life.

‘You’ve years left to say it now.’ He thumbed a tear from Sherlock’s cheek. ‘We’ve got all the time in the world.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't wait until Tuesday to ease all of your minds. Hope you're having as fabulous a weekend as I am. Don't worry; there's more to come! <3
> 
> And, yes; in the head canon I share with V_Buttons_P, Sherlock loves The Princess Bride? Why? BECAUSE JOY.


	12. Burletta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burletta (n)  
> A little joke.

The sun was warm enough for it to be noon and falling across him in striations from the venetian blinds. His shoulders felt sore, his limbs lead-heavy and odd. He furrowed his brow and blinked himself awake. A lanky figure sat at his overbed table in a faded hospital gown, a crayon in his hand and his face clenched in concentration. Hamish felt a grin tugging at his face.

‘Daddy?’

‘Hm?’

‘That’s mine, you know.’

‘I didn’t notice your name on it.’ His father peeked over through his fringe, a small smirk on his lips. ‘You’re supposed to be resting.’

‘So are you.’

He shrugged, gingerly colouring a cartoon tree. ‘Boring.’

Hamish laughed a little. His hand uncurled from beneath his chest and reached out to touch his father’s knee, just to be sure. Long fingers curled around it. ‘Where’s Will?’

He nodded toward the window. ‘Still asleep.’

‘They gave him a sedative?’

‘Several.’

‘He’s not okay, is he?’

‘He’s going to need a lot of help.’

Hamish nodded. He rubbed at his nose. ‘And Papa?’

‘Quarrelling with the paediatrician.’

He grinned. ‘The poor man.’

‘Trust me, he deserves it.’ He watched as his father finished the tree and set down his crayon. ‘Budge up, darling; it’s a bit draughty in here.’

Hamish scooted to the right side of the bed and lifted up the blankets. Sherlock wheeled his IV-pole over and climbed in beside him with a soft groan. Hamish curled against his chest without hesitation, a sinewy arm wrapping around his shoulder. They lay in silence a moment.

‘How bad is it?’ He didn’t bother to clarify.

‘I’ve seen worse.’

‘Like yours?’

‘Like mine.’ A dry peck landed on Hamish’s forehead. ‘Your papa will treat them for you. You’ll be right as a trivet in no time.’

Hamish snuggled closer. ‘I wouldn’t mind you and I having matching scars.’ A sharp nose pressed against his hairline. ‘Papa’s going to kill him.’

‘He is.’

He sighed and closed his eyes. ‘Good.’ Sherlock didn’t reply.

They may have dozed for a time, but neither cared to notice. The room was quiet but for the whirring of machines and Will’s steady breathing, the bed warm and comfortable now that it was shared. Hamish found himself tracing the lines of bandaging through Sherlock’s thin shirt. The arm around his shoulders tightened. He felt his limbs turn to jam.

A soft knock sounded off to their right. Sherlock stretched up enough to see. His smile was evident in his voice. ‘Good afternoon, Molly.’

‘Hullo.’ Hamish felt the mattress sink beside him and a gentle hand settle in his hair. He butted against it. ‘You’re taking after your father.’

‘What do you mean?’ he murmured.

‘Running off after trouble, me finding you in hospital... Do I have to slap some sense into you, too?’

The boy giggled shyly, shifting his head so he could look at her. ‘No, thank you.’

‘No? Alright, I suppose I won’t.’ She smiled up at Sherlock. ‘You’re supposed to be in your room.’

‘It’s boring in there.’

‘It’s a hospital. It’s not supposed to be exciting.’

‘John left.’

‘It’s definitely not supposed to be _that_ exciting.’

Hamish shifted. ‘Aunt Molly?’

‘Hm?’

‘Are you really cross with me?’

‘Of course not.’ She petted him. ‘I’m just taking the mickey.’

‘Okay.’

‘Did you think I was?’

He grinned. ‘No. I just feel awful, making you worry.’

‘Well, we’ll forgive you for that, alright?’ He nodded and curled into Sherlock’s chest once more. Molly watched him with a sad smile, ignoring Sherlock’s searching stare. ‘How’s Will?’

‘Sedated.’

‘Does he need it?’

‘I’m afraid he does.’ 

She shook her head, biting her lip to keep from crying. ‘And John?’

‘Distracted.’

‘Good.’ 

‘And you?’

‘And me what?’ He quirked a brow, the answer obvious. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘What do you think?’ She soothed a cowlick in Hamish’s hair. ‘I brought biscuits. I don’t know why. I didn’t think flowers would go over well, but biscuits might. Don’t know if any of you are up to it, of course, but they’ll keep for a day or two.’

‘I’m sure they’re lovely.’

‘And tea, too. It won’t keep, mind, but it’s warm at the moment.’

‘Molly--’

‘Is there milk?’ Hamish asked.

‘Yes, darling, there’s milk just for you.’ 

Hamish scooted closer and somehow found the strength to sit up. He cringed a moment before a spark of his usual smile flashed across his face. ‘I think I could eat.’

‘You think you could eat biscuits you mean.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Dad, and I wonder from whom I developed that particular trait.’

Sherlock nearly laughed. His eyes certainly took on a familiar fondness that Hamish had worried he’d never see again. But then they were all three somehow perched comfortably on the narrow bed as Molly recounted a well-loved story of a squirrel sneaking into the morgue. Cups of tea and milk were passed around and a tin of biscuits soon lay half-empty between them. And Hamish laughed, softly so as not to wake his brother, his hand over his mouth, the sound like tiny bells in a summer breeze.

‘And then Finn looks up, and who do you think is sniffing at a cirrhotic liver he’s just removed?’

It was only Sherlock’s quick arm that kept Hamish from falling over in a fit of giggles. He shook against his father’s shoulder, covered in biscuit crumbs and nearly slopping his milk. Sherlock coughed against his chuckle, smiling despite the pain. He turned to the door as another knock sounded, his grin widening.

‘Uncle Greg!’ Hamish chirped.

‘Well, hello! You’re looking a sight better than the last time I saw you.’

‘Aunt Molly brought biscuits!’

‘Did she? She’s brilliant, isn’t she?’

The Holmes men shared a knowing look they had to swiftly break for fear of giggling. She held the tin out to Lestrade. ‘Would you like one?’

‘Cheers.’ He took a bite and groaned. ‘Cor, what’s in these? They’re amazing!’

‘Just shortbread, Greg,’ she laughed, ‘Don’t tease.’

‘I’m not! Really, they’re excellent!’ They beamed at one another. Lestrade averted his eyes and cleared his throat. ‘How’s the other one getting on?’

‘He’s sleeping,’ Hamish replied through a mouthful of biscuit. ‘You can give him a pet if you want; they’ve sedated him.’

‘Nah, I won’t bother him. Just wanted to make sure you were both still in one piece.’ Hamish nodded, crumbs haloing his lips. Lestrade seemed to notice Sherlock for the first time. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be next door?’

‘Nope.’

‘Right,’ he chuckled. ‘Well then, I’ll be off. Give us a ring if you need anything.’ 

‘Bye, Uncle Greg!’

‘See you later, Mish. Sherlock.’ He grinned and nodded to Molly. ‘Bye, Molly.’

‘Bye!’ She watched him go. She appeared younger by a decade at least.

‘Molly.’

‘Yes?’

Sherlock cleared his throat. ‘As an expert on the matter, as well as staggering a number of other subjects, I feel it is my duty to inform you, without any shred of doubt, that our time upon this earth is both bothersome and fleeting, and we ought to locate and procure whatever comforts are achievable for us in a timely fashion. Furthermore, I have, to use an arcane and overused parlance, thrice shuffled off this mortal coil, and I can tell you from my vast experience that it is far more pleasant to do so whilst in the presence of those few persons who are truly important to us than to do so alone. Perhaps this may seem sentimental, but I fear I am becoming sentimental in my autumn years. All that being said, there is a match this afternoon, Tottenham versus Liverpool from John’s ramblings last weekend, which will be broadcast in the pub up the street unless the pub’s management has recently changed. It hasn’t; I would know. Those sorts of things never get past me. It should be on in forty minutes or so. _Don’t_ cheer for Liverpool.’

Molly took a moment to process this material, decided it did not, in fact, make any sense, and determined the best course of action was to squint at him. ‘Beg pardon?’

Hamish took pity on her. ‘He means you should ask Uncle Greg out for a pint.’

‘Uncle Greg?’

‘He fancies you.’

She flushed. ‘Do you really think so?’

‘Dilated pupils, increased arterial palpitations evident in the carotid artery, not to mention that insipid compliment regarding your cookery--’

‘He told me so.’

Sherlock glared. ‘He did not.’

‘He did so! On my birthday! He was into his cups and going on and on about how fit my mum is.’

‘…Oh.’ Sherlock turned to Molly. ‘Yes, he’s right, he did.’

‘He thinks I’m fit?’ She coughed to hide her delighted grin and smoothed her skirt, brushing spare biscuit crumbs onto the lino. Sherlock and Hamish glanced at each other.

‘Probability of success is a conservative ninety-seven percent.’

‘If you run, you can catch him,’ Hamish advised. ‘Back stairwell. He doesn’t like the lift.’

Molly closed up the carafe delicately. ‘I should let you rest before the nurse comes back. In your own bed, preferably.’ She attempted to give Sherlock a stern glare, but it didn’t quite work. She kissed Hamish’s forehead. ‘Save some biscuits for your brother.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Good lad. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright?’ He nodded, his face the picture of innocent obeisance. Sherlock gave her cheek a dry peck and she was gone, her footsteps dwindling toward the back stairs. Hamish turned to his father with a toothy grin.

‘That took long enough, didn’t it?’

‘I’ll say. They’re worse than Papa and me.’


	13. Allegretto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allegretto (adj.)  
> A little bit joyful.

Sherlock was lost for words -- a rare occurrence, as John so often enjoyed pointing out. He was finally being discharged. They were finally going home. He wondered if John was perhaps correct about the existence of some sort of higher power, for this was surely a minor miracle. 

He hadn’t been teasing Molly: he truly was growing sentimental in his old age.

His carrier bag felt lighter than it ought, weightless in his hand as he shifted it onto the bed for easier access. He slipped on his jacket and brushed off the sleeves. He’d spent too much time in itchy hospital gowns of late. The Belstaff regarded him from a peg on the door, fresh from the cleaners and looking new. He smiled to see it. Yes, this was a miracle if ever there was one. There was no other reason any of it was possible.

A buzz on the overbed table drew his attention. He took his mobile in hand and his stomach turned to ice. The screen read _Unlisted_. He accepted the call and waited.

‘Didn’t your mother tell you to answer the phone with a “hello”?’ drawled the lilting voice on the other end.

‘Didn’t yours tell you to leave with a “goodbye”?’

‘No. I’m afraid she didn’t tell me much of anything.’

Sherlock plucked a stray thread from his trousers. ‘I was sorry to have missed you.’

‘I’m sure you were.’

‘Shame about your man.’

‘Yes, well. You don’t mean that.’ He didn’t. ‘And there are always other men. The world is full of them after all.’ He sighed, forlorn. ‘Oh, Sherlock. What am I going to do with you?’

‘Kill me, I suppose.’

‘You’re being obvious again,’ he sang. ‘And what would be the point of it? You have this nasty habit of coming back.’ Sherlock couldn’t argue with that. ‘Ah, well. I suppose I’ll just have to find a hobby until I come up with something really good.’

‘World domination would be right up your alley. Or is that too pedestrian for you?’

‘I thought your brother was handling that.’ He was grinning. Sherlock could hear it in his voice. ‘No, Sherlock. I’ve always fancied I’d end the world. But I suppose I’ll settle for ending yours.’ Sherlock didn’t reply. ‘I’d tell you to give my love to John but, well. We both know he won’t hear about this conversation.’ A pop of gum soft in his ear. ‘Toodle-loo, Daddy Holmes.’ He rang off. Sherlock could swear he heard whistling in the corridor. He swallowed hard, the phone still against his ear. He lowered it slowly and stared unseeing at the screen.

‘Sherlock?’ He turned. John was in the doorway, his jaw set. ‘Are you ready?’

Sherlock studied him a moment, watching his white knuckles as he clenched his hand. He wondered where the boys were. ‘Certainly.’ He wet his lips and nodded, wrapped himself in his great, sweeping coat. ‘Moriarty sends his regards.’

John was quiet a moment, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. ‘I thought that might be him.’

‘Yes.’

His brow furrowed. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

Sherlock looked down at his phone. His hands were shaking. He pocketed it and took the bag in hand, throwing it over his shoulder. ‘Because I’ve finally realised I’m nothing like him.’ He kissed John’s cheek and stepped into the corridor. John watched him go and didn’t say a thing.

The boys were already nestled in the back of Mycroft’s borrowed car, Hamish’s hands a blur as he extrapolated on this finer points of paediatric sedatives. A shy smile snuck across Will’s face at the sight of his father’s ginger steps: his first since they’d arrived at St Bart’s. Sherlock returned it as he climbed into the car, valiantly attempting not to groan in pain. John followed him inside, and Hamish flopped onto his lap.

‘What do you think, Papa? Are opioids or barbiturates better for anaesthetising children?’

‘Well, that depends on the child,’ he replied, adjusting Hamish to a more comfortable position. ‘Their history, responses to other medications, familial issues…’

‘But what about Will?’ The boy in questions was leaning against Sherlock a little. He pretended not to notice when his father’s long arm looped around his shoulders and squeezed him closer. John, however, saw and smiled.

‘For Will?’ Hamish nodded. ‘Easy enough. Strong cup of tea and some Doctor Who. What do you think?’

Hamish considered this a moment. He grinned at his father. ‘Best put sugar in the tea. I’d say he needs it.’

‘And some biscuits as well?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Well! Best get his treatment started, then. Jarvis?’ he called to the driver, ‘Baker Street, please.’

‘Of course, Doctor Watson.’ Jarvis started the car and headed for the main street.

John smiled at Sherlock, soft and sad, their knees bumping with the movements of the car. Will sighed and snuggled nearer, grateful for the bolstering arm. Hamish bubbled on, offering a byzantine account of the social life of his favourite nurse. Sherlock was only half-listening, his eyes drawn to the small wrinkles around John’s eyes, the dents in the old roads, the comforting weave of William’s coat. They were going home. They were together and they were going home.

It began to snow: fat, fluffy shavings dancing in the grey air. It would be Christmas soon. He could almost hear Sherrinford laughing. His hand found John’s and he laced their fingers together. The angle was a bit awkward, but he thought they could manage it for the rest of the ride.

It was worth it for the warmth of his grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for all of the kudos, reviews, general flailing, and support on this story. You guys are all utterly fantastic and I can't tell you how much it means to me to hear your comments and suggestions and occasional exasperations (because what's the point in writing if you can't occasional have a reader chomping at the bit for more?). I'm already at work on a sequel and hope to start posting it soon. Don't worry: there is more to come. Happy New Year to everyone! Best wishes for 2015.   
> \--WdW


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